


Shattered

by Viala



Category: Cabin Pressure
Genre: Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-12-14
Updated: 2012-12-14
Packaged: 2017-11-21 03:27:31
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 10,998
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/592921
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Viala/pseuds/Viala
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Arthur came top of his year at school, once. Was it really a 'dreadful public school', as Douglas claimed? Or was the truth rather more disturbing?</p>
            </blockquote>





	Shattered

**One**

 

Carolyn sat in Gordon’s office, in Gordon’s oversized leather swivel chair, grimly watching the telephone on his desk. Daring it to ring again, dreading that it would. If it happened again, then she would be certain; and this time, she was going to take action.

 

When the phone did ring, she jumped and her heart leapt in horror. There was no turning back though, she snatched the receiver up and said nothing.

 

There was a breathy pause on the line, but no click.

 

“Mum?”

 

Carolyn let out a breath she hadn’t known she’d been holding, relief and impatience and frustration all flooding through her. “Arthur. Oh, it’s you.”

 

“You say that like it’s a bad thing, Mum.”

 

“No, no, no – I’m sorry, sweetums, I was waiting for another call, that’s all.I wasn’t expecting it to be you.”

 

“Oh. I’ll get off the line then.”

 

“No no, not at all, it’s lovely to hear from you. In fact I’d far rather talk to my little boy than the caterers or the florists or any of the rest of the army of suppliers deemed necessary to serve four people dinner.”

 

“Hey! I’m not little. I’m taller than you now.”

 

“That’s irrelevant. You will always be my little boy, no matter how inconveniently high you grow.”

 

It amused her to hear the not-quite-broken catch in his voice, which was emphasised over the phone. Sixteen, sometimes sounding twelve again.

 

“Are you having a dinner party then?”

 

“Yes, so called – really of course it’s a business meeting. You father is entertaining Haley Carpenter and some hanger-on of hers, in the hope of conning her into becoming a client, so the house has been turned into a three Michelin starred restaurant and filled with flowers, which make me sneeze.”

 

“Oh! Wow! Haley Carpenter! Oh, I wish I was at home, I’d love to meet her.”

 

“If you were at home I fear you wouldn’t be allowed to. You know what your father’s like about clients.”

 

“Yeah, but Haley Carpenter, she was named as Britain’s top-grossing entrepreneur last year, how she built up Astros from nothing in five years is just brilliant, and it’s all down to her management philosophy of creative empowerment. We read an essay of hers in Business Studies last term, and then I got the school library to order her book. She’s brilliant!”

 

“Is she indeed. Of course it doesn’t do her entrepreneurial expertise any harm that she looks like a supermodel, has hair to her waist and legs to her shoulders.”

 

“Mum! You know, that’s really sexist.”

 

“Sexist! You dare call me sexist, child?”

 

“Yeah, actually. Just cos you’re a woman doesn’t mean that you can’t be – well, it’s not fair to imply that Haley Carpenter couldn’t have succeeded without looking the way she does. You should read her book, she has really original ideas on finding people’s talents and using them.”

 

“Oh, I expect so,” said Carolyn, suddenly feeling weary.

 

“What’s wrong, Mum?”

 

“Nothing’s wrong, I should probably go and get on with organising this bun fight, that’s all.”

 

“There is something wrong, I can always hear it in your voice.”

 

That was true enough. Ever since he had been really quite small, Arthur had been perceptive to her moods – and others. Much as she would like to credit her only child with extraordinary empathy – and indeed he was a bright, sensitive boy – Carolyn knew in her darker moments that he was quick to understand and respond to emotional atmospheres because he had to, in self defence.

 

“You don’t approve of Haley Carpenter for some reason,” he continued. “But honestly, Mum, she’d be a great client for Dad.”

 

“I’m sure that’s true. And it’s not that I disapprove of Miss Carpenter, I’ve never even met the woman. It’s just – “ She hesitated. Why was she even considering having this conversation with her sixteen year old son, who wasn’t old enough to begin to understand regret, who was poised on the brink of a shining life of his own? “She’s done something with herself, and I haven’t.”

 

“Aw Mum! That’s not true at all. You’ve helped Dad build up Shappey Aviation, it wouldn’t be anything like as successful as it is now if you hadn’t been for you.”

 

“I’ve hosted parties and I’ve sat at dinner tables and I’ve smiled at clients. A lifelike female dummy could have performed the role adaquetly, and wouldn’t come with a use-by date either.”

 

“Honestly, Mum, that’s not true. You’re great with people. You’ve got the ‘strong hook’, that’s what Haley Carpenter calls it, that’s the ability to charm people to do things without showing weakness. You know what, you’d be brilliant at running your own company.”

 

“Hah!”

 

“No, you really would. Now that Dad’s company’s been floated, you should move on to an enterprise of your own.”

 

“Dear heart, the one time I did try running a business, it didn’t exactly set the world of retail alight.”

 

“Aw, but retail wasn’t the right line of business for you, and anyway, Gran was in overall charge still, wasn’t she. What you need to have is your own mandate, be in control, and then you could get the best out of people. You’d be brilliant, Mum!”

 

In control. It made her sad to hear the innocence and enthusiasm in his voice, the faith. “Sadly, Arthur, starting a business takes resources and assets. I don’t have any of my own, all this is your father’s and I doubt he’d be pleased if I abandoned Shappey Aviation for any scheme of my own. Besides, I haven’t the least idea what I would do, nor when it comes to it any real desire to do anything. Enough of this airy persiflage. Get to the point, child. I’m sure you haven’t rung up your mother to give her career advice. To what do I owe the pleasure of this all too infrequent use of your housemaster’s telephone?”

 

“Oh. Yeah.” He hesitated a moment, then she could hear the nervous pride in his voice. “I did it, Mum. I beat Tom Faversham. I’m getting the fifth form prize.”

 

“Arthur! Oh, that’s wonderful. Well done!”

 

“I mean, I’m getting the English prize, and I’m sharing the French prize with Tom and I’m sharing the Latin prize with Ben Chormley-Woods, but I was worried about maths again. I’m never going to be top in maths.”

 

“Dear heart, you don’t need to be top in every subject in the school, and three subject prizes – “

 

“Four. I’m getting the drama cup as well for being in An Inspector Calls, but I know that doesn’t really count.”

 

“It most certainly does count.” But they both knew exactly what he meant.

“It’s just the maths, I always worry about the maths. But even though I only came tenth in that, I beat Tom on physics despite him being better at maths, and anyway. This year I did it, I got the form prize. So… do you think Dad will be pleased? This time?”

 

“Of course he will,” said Carolyn firmly. Her pride and elation in her son’s news chilled as she heard the hope in his voice.

 

The year before, Arthur had been presented with three subject prizes and a special medal for a poetry competition awarded by some illustrious old boy. But he had narrowly, as far as she could understand the arcane workings of the school’s ranking system, missed the overall form prize. Gordon had made his feelings clear on the subject of failure, offered his opinion that poetry was for poofters anyway, and chosen to fly off to a business convention rather than attend the school prizegiving.

 

“Do you think he’ll come to Speech Day then?”

 

“Certainly he will. I shall make sure of it.”

 

“Will you tell him? I know he’s busy, I don’t want to bother him.”

 

“It will be the first thing he hears the moment he gets home, and I’ll be sure to tell the famous Haley Carpenter all about my clever, clever son.”

 

Once Arthur had rung off, full of shy enthusiasm at the prospect of being described to the glamorous entrepreneur, Carolyn sat where she was for a long time – looking through the French windows to the sweep of gravel and lawn, pondering. Arthur really had become the one shining good in a life which had turned into a nightmarish trap, even though in a way, he was part of the problem. In him, she knew, she was incredibly lucky. He had always been a sunny, good-natured child - caring, considerate, only naughty when his enthusiasm for everything got him carried away, always sorry afterwards – and he hadn’t turned surly or oppositional in his teenage years, like so many of her friends’ children. He seemed to have inherited all of Gordon’s charm and intelligence, and none, not a trace, of his viciousness and duplicity.

 

And she could not always protect him.

 

The phone rang.

 

This time, Carolyn had not been anticipating it, and she jumped half out of her skin. She answered without thinking. “Shappey residence?”, then mentally kicked herself for speaking.

 

There was a silence, followed by a quiet click.

 

 

 

**Two**

 

Arthur hitched his backpack onto his other shoulder yet again, in the never ending quest to find if the right or the left could support a ton of bricks more comfortably. He was pretty sure he had put books in the bag before he set off that morning from Bertie’s house, but at some point on the two mile long walk from the station to his home they had obviously transmuted themselves into concrete. Still, here he nearly was at last, at the great iron gates that led into the estate. He was relieved to see that they were standing open, he wasn’t going to have to faff about with the intercom to get them unlocked. That was always embarrassing.

 

They wouldn’t be expecting him yet. Bertie’s mum had run him to the station and he’d been able to catch an earlier train that he’d looked up the day before, with one less connection. He’d thought of calling his mother from the payphone at the station to let her know he would be getting home early, but then the train had come and he’d had to hop on, and he thought he might as well walk instead of inconveniencing her to come and get him when there were important guests in the house. It was a nice day, and despite the stupidly heavy bag, he was buoyed up with excitement on the walk along the country roads. Not only was he going home for the first time since half term – he had gone straight from school on a week’s visit to his friend Bertie – but Dad was pleased with him, and he was going to get to meet Haley Carpenter after all. The anticipation of this had a tingly specialness that was not really much to do with her innovative methods of people management, and a lot more to do with her cascade of chestnut hair, and wide green eyes, and quirky little smile. All of which he’d had ample opportunity to study over the past term, because he had cut out a glossy picture of her from the Sunday Times Business People Review and stuck it on the wall of his cubicle above his bed. He felt a bit bad about this, because he sincerely believed what he had said to his mother, that she deserved to be admired for her business prowess and not her appearance, but he wasn’t doing anything different from most of the other boys in the dorm. Slightly dorky, maybe, to make a pin-up of a businesswoman rather than a pop star, but nobody had commented.

 

And tonight he would see her for real, get to talk to her, put his hand in hers to shake it. He could feel his palms begin to sweat as he crunched along the gravel driveway.

 

It had just been a great day altogether, Speech Day, a week ago. He had woken up in his cubicle, his bags packed around him, feeling nothing but nervous and sicky. Despite what Mum had promised, he hadn’t any faith at all that Dad would really turn up. He hadn’t called him or anything, to congratulate him. Not that Arthur had expected that he would, he had never done anything like that before, but he couldn’t help be conscious that the other boys had fathers who came down and got them on exeat weekends and took them skiing and riding and fishing. Obviously Mum was brilliant and he was always delighted to see her and she took him for meals in country pubs and things, but he felt he was the only boy in the school whose mother was the only parent who ever appeared in person. Except maybe Tim Bellinger in lower sixth, whose father was dead. OK, a personal appearance by Tim Bellinger’s father would be weird, but even then he had a jolly-looking stepfather who always came to everything.

 

His apprehension mounted as he sat with the rest of the fifth form on the side of the assembly hall assigned to the boys, watching while the parents rustled and chattered into the hall, gradually filling up their half. It seemed that the seats were almost all full before at last, he spotted Mum in a smart green dress and a bit of a hat. And beside her, spreading across two seats but magnificent in a bespoke tailored suit and a gold watch chain, his father. Arthur’s heart leaped. It was, as far as he knew, the first time Dad had ever set foot in the school grounds.

 

His father’s presence, which was approval in itself, made what would have been the slightly embarrassing business of going up to collect his prizes intensely sweet and exciting. Some chaps from his house gave a small cheer as his name was announced for the fifth form prize, and rather than cringing, Arthur glowed to imagine that his father would think he was popular as well as academically successful.

 

Afterwards, there was a reception in the quadrangle, with Champagne substitute for the adults and orange juice for those boys not adept enough to snaffle a flute of cheap Prosecco. Arthur had got caught up saying goodbye to some friend who were leaving immediately, and by the time he got to the party, Dad was holding forth to half a dozen parents and teachers. He looked as if he had been the life and soul of the Parents’ Association for years.

 

“Here he is!” said Dad loudly, as Arthur approached. “My son! Top of the year, did you see that?”

 

Arthur found himself squeezed into a shoulder-hug. It was great, but a little too tight.

 

“Arthur’s done extremely well this year,” said Mr Carby-Hall, his housemaster. “But he always does, we expect great things of Arthur in the sixth form. Have you discussed his A level options with him yet?”

 

“Oh God no, I don’t know anything about all that, never took any exam at school and anyway, it was all different in Australia. And like I always say, it doesn’t matter what you do, as long as you do the best you can. Eh, Arthur?”

 

Arthur nodded vigorously.

 

“But it will matter insofar as choice of subject at A Level determines what university courses he can apply for,” Mr Carby-Hall continued.

 

“Sir,” said Arthur, nervously. “I’m not sure I want to go to university actually. I want to be a pilot, and - I’d rather go straight to flying school. Or apply, at any rate.”

 

It was the first time he had stated this ambition out loud, in front of his father at any rate. For although he was addressing his housemaster, he was talking to Dad.

 

Mr Carby-Hall lifted his eyebrows in mild surprise and was obviously preparing to say something politely encouraging, but before he could speak, Dad swept in with an interruption.

 

“No, no, no, we’re not having any of that. You don’t want to be a pilot, son. They’re nothing more than glorified bus drivers, we can do better than that. If you want to fly, you can get your PPL a few years down the line, once you’ve really made something of yourself, like I did. Now then, you deserve a treat for finally getting your finger out and coming out top for once – anything you like. Name it.”

 

“Can… can I have a flying lesson?”

 

His father’s face darkened dangerously, and he took away his arm. “Arthur, what did I just say?”

 

“Sorry! Sorry, I meant – OK, sorry. Nothing, it’s OK, I don’t want anything.” Suddenly he felt tears stinging the back of his eyes, and the prospect of crying in front of his father and his housemaster and the other boys almost made him bolt. He looked away to conceal his face and caught sight of Mum, who had been talking to some other parents at the far edge of the gathering and was now coming over to join them.

 

“I’m offering to treat you, anything you like, and you don’t want anything?”

 

“No! Of course I do, that’s great Dad, thanks – “ He searched desperately for something that would be acceptable. If he said something lame like ice cream, which stupidly was the first thing that had come into his head, that would make matters worse. “Um, did you do a deal with Haley Carpenter, I mean is she a client of yours now?”

 

“How the devil did you know about that?”

 

“The boy takes an interest in your business affairs, Gordon,” said his mother, arriving at his side. “I happened to mention that Haley and her partner were coming to dinner a few weeks ago, he called me that morning.”

 

“Yeah, and I really admire her, I think she’s one of the best business minds in the country. I mean, not as good as you – obviously – but if she’s a client, and she’s coming to a function or a conference or something some time, I’d really love to meet her. You know, just to say hello.”

 

For a moment he wasn’t sure whether his father’s expression meant, and then to his huge relief his father laughed, and put his arm round his shoulders again. “Best business minds in the country, listen to the boy. Best pair of legs, he means. Good on you! That’s my son. Well, as it happens, she and Richard are coming to stay at the Hall next weekend for a get to know you session, so you can do more than say hello. You can stay for dinner with us.”

 

“Aw brilliant! Thanks, Dad!”

 

And really, this promise had almost made up for his father’s reaction to his career dream, which was one he had fully expected anyway.

 

So here he was, about to meet his unconventional pin-up girl at last. The front of the house seemed really quiet as he turned the corner of the driveway that brought it into view. There was no-one working in the grounds as far as he could see, there was no-one on the west terrace, there was no flicker of life behind the long windows. There was, however, a car he did not recognise parked carelessly right in front of the steps leading up to the main entrance doors, a tiny, smart Alfa Romeo. Usually all cars got tidied away to the old stable block, Mum didn’t like vehicles cluttering up the front of the house. And one of the big carved wooden doors was standing open, something else that was not usual.

 

Arthur normally went in through the former servants’ entrance round the side, which led into the kitchen corridor and was a safe option for boys with muddy boots. Today, he slipped through the open main door into the grand entrance hall, and tried to ascertain by standing still and listening to the atmosphere of the house itself who was there and whether he would be deemed to be in the way. He didn’t want to anger his father by interrupting an important meeting, and end up getting banished from the promised dinner.

 

Again, the place seemed very quiet. Mum couldn’t be at home, she could generally be heard whatever she was doing. Of course, the same could be said of his father. And yet the door was standing open, someone had to be here. Arthur deposited his rucksack and crept to the door of his father’s study. It was closed, but he could hear no voices within.

 

Something was making him uneasy, though. He retreated hastily from the corridor where the study was, so that he couldn’t be accused of snooping around there, and decided that he couldn’t make any kind of mistake if he just went up to his bedroom and unpacked his stuff. He retrieved the rucksack and started up the main staircase.

 

Coming this way, instead of up the servants’ stairs, he had to pass by the door to the master bedroom suite to get to his own room. It was then that he heard the noises – forced, guttural, half-screams, sounds of pain, and thumping.

 

Arthur froze in real terror for a few moments. Only a few months ago, not very far from the Hall, a merchant banker and his wife had been attacked in their country mansion in the middle of the day and tied up, beaten and tortured by a gang of robbers who had not yet been caught. Sick with fear, but dizzy with bravery, he swung his heavy bag like a weapon and burst into the room.

 

 

**Three**

 

He was prepared for anything as he burst through the door, since his imagination had already supplied a vivid image of Dad and Mum bound and gagged and threatened with guns by huge men in boots and balaclavas. His split-second plan was to use the advantage of surprise to swing the rucksack full of books at the head of the nearest robber, incapacitate him, and grab his weapon.

 

He had already begun a frantic slingshot before he took in the scene before him, and the momentum catapulted the bag from his frozen hands.

 

His father was lying on his back in the middle of his parents’ four-poster bed, entirely naked. On top of him, straddling his vastly spreading belly with shapely legs and thighs, was a woman with long chestnut hair tumbling down her bare back. The woman pumped her hips obscenely, evidently oblivious, throwing back her head with a howling gasp.

 

The rucksack hit the foot of the bed with a clatter, and the books tumbled out to the floor.

 

“Bloody hell!” His father gave the woman on top of him a shove, and scrambled to a semi-sitting position. Sweat was running down his bright red face. “Arthur! You little – “

 

The woman grabbed some of the coverlet and clutched it against her body, curling her long limbs tensely. She looked frozen with shock. There was no doubting who she was – Arthur had lain on his own narrow bed at school every night last term, gazing at those dark eyes and that expressive mouth.

 

“Bloody hell!” cried his father again.

 

Arthur ran.

 

 

 

He was hyperventilating with panic by the time he had raced along the two corridors and set of stairs to the spurious safety of his bedroom. Pointlessly, he locked the door and sank onto the bed, actually physically shaking with shock, trying to get control of his breathing.

 

Disgust at the sight of his father’s naked body, disgust at being confronted with the reality that his father should even do it – it wasn’t just that he was old and fat, he was _Dad_ for goodness sake - compounded searing outrage on Mum’s behalf. And, of course, the shattering of his illusions about Haley Carpenter. The sight of whose naked body had _not_ disgusted him, but now his brain was branded forever with the image of her on top of his father.

 

“Oh God,” muttered Arthur to himself. How could lust and revulsion co-mingle like this? It was so not right.

 

But stronger and more urgent than any of these feelings was fear. He had never been in this much trouble before. The enormity of it paralysed his thinking. Really, he ought to have fled the house rather than hiding in his room like a kid – but where could he possibly go? School was over for the summer, he could hardly go back to Bertie’s house, and even if he had the keys or the means to get there, it was pointless to go to the Highland lodge or the ski chalet.

 

The only option was to run away, really run away, get on a train to London and find a job or something. He was sixteen, it was legal to employ him, he thought. Dad would never find him, kids disappeared in London all the time. But even as he constructed this desperate scenario in his imagination, he knew that he could never do that to Mum. And it was _impossible_ to explain to Mum why he would need to.

 

He was trapped. Mum would always do what she could to shield him, but this time, he couldn’t even let her know that he was in trouble.

 

Far down below his window, he heard voices. One was certainly his father’s and the other was female, presumably Haley, though he couldn’t make out what they were saying. The tone was brief. Then a car door slammed, and tyres screeched and gravel crunched.

 

There was a horrible silence, then the inevitable, inescapable sound of footsteps pounding up the stairs.

 

 

**Four**

 

“You little shit!”

 

His father banged the door open so hard that it smashed against the wall, a bookcase rattled and an Airfix model airplane tumbled off the mantelpiece and smashed to bits on the hearth.

 

Arthur jumped to his feet and backed up against the bed. “I’m sorry, I’m really sorry, Dad! I didn’t mean to – “

 

“You didn’t mean to WHAT?”

 

His father had put on his dressing gown, but was obviously still naked underneath. This state of undress didn’t make him any less intimidating. He was a huge man in every way, and despite his girth, his strength was extraordinary. As he had got bigger – taller, anyway – Arthur had sometimes made an attempt to fight back, but he was almost as helpless against him now as he had been as a small boy. And struggle enraged him further, it was easier to let it happen. Arthur made himself go limp as his father grabbed his wrist and struck him across the cheekbone with the back of his hand. The force of it knocked him back onto the bed, and he tasted blood in his mouth.

 

“What the hell did you think you were doing?”

 

“Nothing, Dad, nothing – “

 

“Bursting into my bedroom – sneaking about – do you know what you’ve done? Look at me – look at me, you little bastard!”

 

Arthur had curled into a ball on the bed, trying to protect his face. He felt a blow on his shoulderblade, then his father rolled him over roughly and seized his wrists, pinning them back so that he had no choice but to look up his father.

 

Dad was still beetroot-faced and sweating, his eyes were wild with fury and his voice was dangerously low. “You upset Haley. You humiliated her. She just walked out of here saying she wasn’t sure she was ever coming back.”

 

“Dad – “

 

“Don’t you ‘Dad’ me. If you’ve messed this up for me I’ll throw you out the house, and don’t think I don’t mean it. The law can’t stop me no more. You can forget about your posh poncy school, you can get the hell out of here and earn a living like I did.”

 

He punctured this speech with repeated blows to Arthur’s ribs and side, holding him down by his wrist with one hand and pummelling him savagely with the other. The last punch caught him hard in the solar plexus as he twisted desperately about in a futile attempt to evade his father’s fists. All the breath went out of him in a great painful whoosh. Black spots twinkled in front of his eyes as he struggled to draw in air, and he tumbled off the side of the bed and hit the floor with a dull thud of pain.

 

After a moment the tightness in his chest eased and he could breathe again, and he tried to get to his feet. On the floor, he was in danger of kicks as well as punches.

 

“All right,” he gasped. “I’ll go then. I’m going.”

 

His father shoved him back down to his knees with the flat of his hand and loomed over him. “You’re going nowhere, I haven’t finished with you yet. Now you listen to me, sonny boy. If you say one word about this to anyone - but especially your mother – I’ll thrash your pansy hide black and blue, you hear me?”

 

Arthur lowered his head. He was still shaking, but he was aware suddenly that fear and shock were being overwhelmed by the beginnings of burning, unstoppable anger.

 

His father seized his arms and shook him viciously. “Do – you – understand?”

 

“No!” Arthur cried out. “It’s not right, Dad. You shouldn’t be – be – you shouldn’t be doing that with her – her or anyone else. It’s not right and it’s not fair to Mum.”

 

The side of his face exploded with pain as his father’s hand smashed across it. He sank back, stunned.

 

“You sanctimonious little shit! What the hell do you think you know about it, eh? My God, look at you, with your poofter pommy accent and your Latin prize. What the bloody hell makes you think you can talk to me like that?”

 

“She’s my mum! You can’t do that to her! I won’t let you!”

 

Powered by adrenalin and rage, he scrambled to his feet, dodged another punch and made a dash for the door.

 

“You come back here! Arthur, by God – “

 

Arthur made it to the galleried upper landing before the pain in his ribs slowed him to a halt. He swayed and caught hold of the banister, nausea rising in a wave.

 

His father caught up with him and made a grab for his arm. Arthur managed to shake him away, and realised for the first time that there was something other than anger in his father’s staring, panting face.

 

It was fear.

 

“Look, son,” he said, his voice suddenly normal and reasonable in tone. “We’ve got to stick together here. You’re fifteen now, you’re nearly a man – “

 

“Sixteen, Dad, I’m sixteen.”

 

“Well there you are then, legal age and everything. A few years more, you’ll understand how these things go. You don’t want to go upsetting your mother now, do you?”

 

Of course it was going to upset her. That had been his first reaction, that he could never tell her what had just happened because he didn’t want her to be hurt. But he was absolutely sure that she would want to know, nonetheless.

 

“So,” his father continued, putting his hand gently on his shoulder, “let’s just forget all about this now, eh? I’m sorry about getting a bit rough with you just then. Tell you what, maybe we can see about getting you those flying lessons you were on about. Next Sunday, I could even take you up in GERTI and show you a trick or two.”

 

Flying lessons for his silence, warmth and approval for his collusion. For a moment, Arthur felt the dreadful pull of his charm; he longed for his father, and was tempted to allow everything to be all right.

 

Then he lifted his head. “It’s not right, Dad. You’re cheating on Mum. She needs to know.”

 

He barely saw it coming. His father roared and lunged at him, seizing hold of the fabric of his T-shirt and lifting him clear off his feet. Too surprised to react, Arthur felt the surreal sensation of floating in the air and for a brief second flying. And then an explosion in his head, and silence.

 

 

**Five**

 

Carolyn sat absolutely still while Gordon paced about the small shabby room, gazing without seeing at the pile of women’s magazines, a sad heap of broken toys, and posters about smoking, AIDS and smear tests. She wanted as much as he did to be making somebody do something, but she understood more profoundly that it was all being done. So she held herself still, and watched him fluster.

 

“What the hell’s taking them so long?” he said, once again. “We should get him to a proper hospital.”

 

“This is a proper hospital, Gordon. They don’t perform brain surgery any faster if you pay them. You know very well we had to go to the nearest emergency department.”

 

“Well, soon as they’ve fixed him up I’ll get him transferred to somewhere decent. This place is like a Gulag. I bet it’s crawling with bugs. It stinks.”

 

This was not true, or only insofar as the hospital smelled strongly of disinfectant. It was a heady, sickening smell, and it was making Carolyn’s head swim. The secret wound she had been carrying around for the past two weeks, festering and eating her away inside, seemed utterly insignificant. Gordon didn’t matter, he was nothing. He couldn’t touch her emotions any more. It was a strange, desperate moment to have that insight, but as she watched him pace about, glancing convulsively at his watch, she knew it was true.

 

“Mr and Mrs Shappey?”

 

Carolyn jumped. It was a doctor, an attractive and surprisingly young woman with a grave, composed air and unmistakable attitude of authority. Carolyn looked sharply into her face, trying to read anything there.

 

“I’m Dr Miranda Cole, consultant neurologist. Would you like to come this way please?”

 

“What’s happening?” Gordon demanded. “What’s taken you so long, is he OK?”

 

“Can we see him?” Carolyn asked.

 

The doctor’s face was impassive. “Could you come with me, please,” she repeated quietly.

 

Carolyn followed her numbly, hardly even worried that Gordon would create a scene. He had gone very quiet very suddenly, and she could not look at him – she was afraid that they were being taken somewhere private to be given the worst news of all, and she couldn’t bear to see that fear reflected back at her.

 

They were shown into a comfortable office, evidently the consultant’s own.

 

“Now,” said the doctor, looking at a sheaf of notes, “your son – Arthur? – has just gone to the high dependency unit after coming out of theatre. At the moment he’s stable and the operation to relieve intracranial pressure caused by the cerebral contusion appears to have been successful – “

 

“Oh thank God,” said Gordon, sinking down into a chair and burying his face in his hands.

 

“However,” Dr Cole continued, “I have to warn you that the prognosis in this kind of case is very uncertain.”

 

“Uncertain?” said Carolyn. She could hear, and not help, the sharpness in her voice. “Uncertain – what?” Uncertain of life or death, was what she wanted to ask, but could not.

 

She felt sorry for the woman, who straightened her white coat at the edges before carrying on. “Arthur has superficial injuries to his body and face from the accident, including two cracked ribs, but the major problem is the head injury. His skull must have struck something hard with considerable force. It was a fall downstairs, wasn’t it?”

 

“Yeah, yeah, that’s right,” said Gordon. “Bloody great lot of stairs, big house you see. And they’re all stone, hard as rock. He must have gone all the way down. I found him at the bottom, you see. There wasn’t any blood though.”

 

“Not externally, no. There was trauma to the skull which caused considerable bleeding inside the cranial cavity, and bruising to the brain. That’s what we’ve just operated to drain off.”

 

“So he’s going to be all right?” said Gordon, his voice trembling in a way that Carolyn had never heard before. “He will be all right now, won’t he?”

 

“If he survives the next twenty-four hours there’s an excellent statistical chance that he won’t die.”

 

“Oh God.” Gordon’s head went into his hands again.

 

“And what,” said Carolyn, “is the statistical chance that he will survive the next twenty four hours?”

 

“At the moment the indications are encouraging. And he’s a young boy in otherwise excellent health, so he’s unlikely to develop secondary complications.”

 

Carolyn let out her breath. “Good. Well, can we see him now?”

 

“In a little while. I need to talk to you a bit about the long term prognosis, so that you’ve got some idea of what to expect when you do see him.”

 

“What do you mean?”

 

“Arthur won’t know that you’re with him, Mrs Shappey. Not for some considerable time, and possibly, not ever. He has suffered what we term a severe brain injury, and although it’s very difficult at this stage to predict what the long-term outcome will be, I’m afraid that some degree of permanent impairment is likely. At the moment, he’s in a coma, and we’ll have to wait until he comes out of that before we can even begin to assess the extent of the damage.”

 

“What?” said Gordon. “Are you telling me my son’s going to be a vegetable?”

 

“That would be an extreme outcome, Mr Shappey. Very occasionally people with this kind of brain injury never do emerge from coma and survive in a persistent vegetative state, but most recover to a greater or lesser extent.”

 

“But with impairment, impairment you said.”

 

“Cognitive effects such as difficulty with speed of thought, memory and understanding, sometimes speech. There can be an effect on what we call executive functions, things like planning and organisation, decision making, social insight. Emotional and hormonal problems, sometimes. It really depends on where the damage is located, how extensive it turns out to be, and how the individual responds. Until Arthur has recovered from the surgery and regained consciousness, we can’t predict anything with certainty. But I want you to be prepared for the possibility that he will not be the same boy, probably ever again. He may need some degree of care throughout his life.”

 

Gordon scraped back his chair. “This is a load of bollocks.”

 

“Gordon!”

 

“You be quiet. If you can’t cure him here, I want him transferred to the best hospital in the country for head injuries, wherever that is and however much it costs. I want the best brain doctor in Britain on his case. Hell, the world if that’s what it takes.”

 

“Mr Shappey,” said Dr Cole, impressively unperturbed, “it is of course your right to have your son transferred to wherever you want, but at the moment he isn’t stable enough to be moved anywhere. And you’re welcome to bring in any private consultant you like, but they will tell you exactly what I’m telling you now. The outcome of brain injury can’t be predicted in any detail at this stage.”

 

Gordon made a low growl of frustration, but said nothing else.

 

“Dr Cole,” said Carolyn quietly, “can I see him now?”

 

 

**Six**

 

He looked more dead than alive, and he didn’t even look like Arthur.

 

Carolyn couldn’t stop herself letting out a gasp of dismay, and halting a little way from the bed where her little boy lay as still as a corpse, and as waxy pale. His head was swathed in a turban of bandages, his mouth was puckered and his face half obscured by the breathing tube of a ventilator, and his arms were lying neatly and motionless on top of the covers. Stark against the white skin was a bruise all across his right cheek, but that was the only visible sign of injury.

 

Gordon stopped at the door and turned away, shuddering. “Christ.”

 

“It’s all right, Mr Shappey,” said the soft-voiced young Irish nurse who had escorted them to the intensive care unit. “It’s not as bad as it looks, he’s doing well.”

 

“It’s not all right, and he isn’t doing well,” said Carolyn. “When will he wake up?”

 

“Soon, you’ll see. He won’t wake up all at once though, just to warn you about that. It’s not like you see on TV, he’s not going to open his eyes and say ‘where am I’. He’ll come out of it gradually.”

 

“Will… it help if I talk to him, or is that another television myth?”

 

“Sure it can’t do any harm. I’ll leave you alone for a bit. If there’s any problem, there’s the call button.”

 

The nurse closed the door, and Carolyn made herself go to Arthur’s side. She was rent by competing urges to run away from this dreadful sight, and to tear off that obscene ventilation tube and saline drip, hold her child tight, and take him away from this. Of course, she did neither. She took hold of the other hand, the one without the shunt taped to it, and squeezed his fingers to reassure herself that they were still warm and alive. His hand looked so normal - the fingernails were ragged and grubby, he was always tearing them off even though she nagged him to cut them properly. A scruffy schoolboy hand.

 

“Arthur,” she said, keeping her voice firm, “it’s your mother. Now I want you to know that you’re going to be all right. Your father and I are going to make sure of it.”

 

“What’s the use, he can’t hear you,” said Gordon, finally and fearfully approaching the bed.

 

“We don’t know that. Perhaps he can.”

 

“Look at him. He’s – bloody hell, what have they done to him. He didn’t look anything like as bad as this when they put him in the ambulance.”

 

“They cut open his skull and operated on his brain, Gordon. Did you expect him to look like he’d tripped in the playpark and scraped his knee?”

 

“Do you think that woman doctor was right about what she said, that he won’t be right in the head when he wakes up? Or do you think she was just trying to scare us?”

 

“Why on earth would she want to scare us? And I don’t think we should talk about that here.”

 

“He can’t hear us,” said Gordon again, gloomily.

 

Carolyn admitted to herself that unfortunately, he was probably right about that. She rubbed Arthur’s limp fingers between her own, and stroked the side of his face that wasn’t bruised, wishing she could look into his eyes. Surely, if he would just open his eyes, she would know that he was still there.

 

Then she noticed something.

 

Two things, really. First, she saw that the mark on his cheek was distinctive in shape; not a single bruise, but two narrow ones running parallel. And then, there was a small cut, like a nick, in the middle of one of them.

 

She had seen this before.

 

“Gordon.” Dread stalled her for a moment.

 

“What?”

 

“What’s this bruise here, on his cheek?”

 

“I don’t know, do I, it must have happened when he fell downstairs. Must have given himself a hell of a knock.”

 

“If this bruise was inflicted by the stairs, why were they wearing your signet ring?”

 

She shot out her hand and caught his wrist in one quick movement, taking him by surprise before he could react or conceal the guilt and terror in his face. She held up his right hand so that they could both look at the gold and onyx signet ring he always wore.

 

“You hit him,” she said. It was a statement of fact, made quietly.

 

“No, no, no. Of course I didn’t.”

 

“Look at his face! Those two marks were made by your fingers, that cut was made by your ring. It’s exactly the same as before.”

 

He looked for a moment as if he were about to flame up in absolute denial, then he snatched his hand away. “All right! I gave him a bit of a slap.”

 

“A slap.”

 

“He was giving me lip. But that’s all, Carolyn, I swear it. For God’s sake, I didn’t do _this_ to him. He fell.”

 

“How did he fall?”

 

“It was an accident, I swear to God. We were at the top of the stairs, like I said he was giving me lip. I saw red, I’m sorry, I gave him a slap, and he tripped and fell down. Like I said.”

 

“What you said was you heard him fall down the stairs and found him unconscious at the bottom. That is what you said, Gordon.”

 

“All right, well – that’s what really happened. It was an accident. You don’t think I really meant the boy any harm, do you? For Christ’s sake, Carolyn.”

 

The tremorous pleading in his voice was barely suppressed by the bluster. Carolyn pulled back the covers from Arthur’s inert body a little way, and gently opened up the front of the hospital gown they had dressed him in for the operation. His upper body, from collar bone to abdomen, was covered in bruises, some deep red and purple, some turning black.

 

“Go away,” she said abruptly.

 

“Carolyn, look, I promise, he went headfirst down the stairs – it was an accident.”

 

“ _Go away_.”

 

She didn’t even look round as the door swung shut.

 

 

**Seven**

 

Carolyn had arranged in advance to have use of the so-called ‘family room’, a small office partially stuffed with faux comforts – a couple of battered sofas, a forlorn bunch of silk flowers, a landscape print – in an attempt to render its atmosphere domestic. This was the place, she was sure, where families were taken to hear the really bad news, and where they were left to cope with the initial impact afterwards. She had another use for its privacy.

 

She had not left the hospital for the past fortnight. Literally, had not stepped over the threshold. Gordon’s blustering about getting Arthur transferred to a private hospital of his taste had never been mentioned since, perhaps because she had not actually had a conversation with Gordon after she had told him to leave the room. He had left innumerable messages at the hospital asking him to call her, and she had ignored them, and though he visited Arthur daily, she avoided him. At least he had not done what she half feared he might – get into GERTI and abscond to some corner of the globe beyond the reach of British extradition. She hadn’t put it past him, but it turned out he had more decency than that. Or perhaps more faith in his ability to cajole and seduce her into silence. It must have been evident to him soon enough that she had not gone straight to the police with her suspicions, so he was probably feeling safer by now.

 

Now, that she was ready for him.

 

Arthur had been showing clinical signs of emerging from the coma for the past six days, and although he had started opening his eyes three days ago, to Carolyn’s bitter disappointment he hadn’t seemed to see her from those eyes. No matter how earnestly the consultant and the nurses reassured her that this was normal in the circumstances, and that he was responding very well, it was impossible not to be deathly afraid when her son opened his eyes, and moved his head to the sound of her voice, and then gazed blankly beyond her.

 

Yesterday, she had had something to try to tell him, at any rate.

 

He had been a bit more propped up in the bed, and they had removed the bandages from his head, revealing that most of his sticky-up unruly hair was still intact and awry. There was a shaved patch on the back of his head, but from the front he looked much more normal. The bruise on his cheek had healed. Altogether, he looked so much more like himself that Carolyn could almost believe that there was nothing stopping him hopping out of bed and coming home with her. Except, as she sat by his side and took his hand, he hardly stirred. His eyelids fluttered and his head rolled on the pillow, but he made no sound.

 

The doctor had told her that any response to stimulus was ‘very encouraging’. Trying to feel very encouraged, Carolyn said firmly, “Good morning Arthur. The doctor tells me you should be up and about soon, which I am entirely in favour of, as I think you’ve wasted quite enough of the summer holiday lying in bed. We had words about that in the Easter holidays, and I thought I made my position quite clear. No more lounging! This letter arrived today, or possibly yesterday, anyway one of your father’s secretaries brought it to the hospital this morning. And do you see who wrote the letter?”

 

She unfolded it from her pocket and held it up in front of his face.

 

“Yes! The Oxford Flying School, no less. I told you I’d get you an interview there, and it took a bit of string pulling, but if there’s one thing your mother’s good at, it’s social puppetry. It’s not until the week after your seventeenth birthday, so that gives you a good ten months to get back on your feet. There now. Up and at it, child.”

 

She left the letter on his bedside cabinet, keeping Biggles the Bear company.

 

And that morning, Arthur had actually looked at her and spoken. He had said, “Mum. Mum. Hello, mum.”

 

“Hello Arthur! That’s more like it. How are you feeling?”

 

He had smiled, and repeated, “Mum. Mum.”

 

And that was all.

 

But she had seen him looking at her, he had known who she was and that she was there, it was enough for now.

 

When Gordon arrived, he was looking red-faced and anxious again. “What’s this about? I asked the nurse, she said Arthur’s fine, or doing well anyway. You gave me a fright calling me here like this.”

 

“Good. I meant to.”

 

“For God’s sake, Carolyn, give me a break. I’ve been out of my mind with worry about the boy. I don’t need you giving me grief as well.”

 

“Don’t you? Maybe you should have thought of that before you beat him black and blue and threw him downstairs.”

 

“How many times do I have to tell you, it was an accident.”

 

“You might be interested to know that he woke up this morning, and he spoke to me.”

 

She paused, to get a good look at his reaction - unmistakable fear and guilt, before he smoothed it over with an uncomfortable smile. “That’s great. Great news! I knew he’d be OK in the end. What did he say?”

 

“Nothing important. Whether he’ll be able to say anything important ever again is still, I’m afraid, open to question. But I don’t need his collaboration, Gordon. I don’t need him to point the finger. I know what happened.”

 

“If you think you’re going to – “

 

“I’m not going to do anything. Not for now, at any rate. Understand this, Gordon – if Arthur had died, nothing would prevent me unleashing on you the full vengeance of the law. But as it is, he is alive, and goodness knows what kind of life he’s going to have. What I do know is that exposing you and locking you up, and thereby bankrupting Shappey Aviation, would do him or me no good at all.”

 

“Too right!”

 

“No – be quiet – I will speak. What you’ve done might have robbed Arthur of any kind of future. We had a lovely, sweet natured, clever child, and you have shattered him. So I will tell you what’s going to happen. You are going to give me a divorce, on the most financially advantageous terms possible. You are going to give me so much money that whatever care Arthur needs from now on, I will be able to give it to him, and he will want for nothing. You are never going to come near me again, and you are certainly never going to be alone with Arthur, ever again.” Even though she kept her voice steely and cold, she was shaking inside.

 

Whatever he had been anticipating, it was clearly not this. “A divorce? Carolyn, sweetheart, come on.”

 

“Don’t you sweetheart me!”

 

“You’re upset about Arthur, but he’s going to get better, I’m sure he’s going to get better – last thing he needs at a time like this is his parents splitting up. Come on. We can work this out, eh? I’ll go and stay in the London flat for a bit if you want some time apart, I mean that’s understandable – “

 

“Gordon, I know.”

 

“You know. What?”

 

“Oh don’t give me this!” Suddenly she lost her self-control and was shouting. “It’s pathetic, it’s insulting to watch you calculating what lies you think I’ll swallow. I know you’re having an affair.”

 

There was a silence as she watched him processing this and deciding what to do. “So he did talk,” he said in a different tone.

 

“Who?” Carolyn cried.

 

Gordon frowned at her, then said, “All right. I don’t deny it. Yeah, there’s someone, and it’s not an affair, it’s something special. She’s someone special. I wasn’t going to let it affect our marriage, not until Arthur had left school and was set up in life anyway, but since you bring it up, I don’t deny it. And since you just said you want a divorce, I take it you won’t be too put out anyway.”

 

“Far from it. She’s welcome to you.”

 

“Right. Fine. You’ll be hearing from my lawyers.”

 

He was going to attempt to make this an unoriginal parting shot, but before he could storm out of the room, Carolyn said, “Gordon. There is one thing. Well, many things, but this in particular. I want GERTI.”

 

“The bloody plane? What the hell do you want that for? You can’t fly it.”

 

“No, but maybe one day Arthur will be able to. And even if he never can, I have other plans.”

 

“Like hell you have. You’re not getting the plane. Over my lawyer’s dead body.”

 

“Do you have to make me remind you that it could so nearly have been over Arthur’s?”

 

He glared, purple faced, silenced, then resorted to the slam of the door for his final statement.

 

 

**Eight**

 

If this was Oxford, Carolyn thought as she drove lost through another wide street of drab red brick houses, then Inspector Morse had been lying to the nation all these years. She hadn’t expected Oxford Airport to be in the heart of the ancient university city, of course, but as it happened she had never been to the place before and had looked forward to a glimpse at least of dreaming spires. This hell-hole suburb was as featureless and depressing as Fitton.

 

“Oxford’s not like on the telly, is it, Mum?” said Arthur.

 

“I don’t think this is Oxford, as such.”

 

“Oh no! We’re supposed to be going to Oxford. Have you gone to the wrong place? We’ll be late!”

 

“No, Arthur, it’s all right. This is the right way.”

 

“Are you sure? Cos it said Oxford on the letter. And on the name of the school. And this is – “ At that moment they passed a sign. “Kidlington.”

 

“Believe me, I know where we’re going,” she said firmly, even though she was only convinced of the general direction.

 

Arthur frowned at the letter in his hand, the same letter that she had propped up against Biggles the Bear at his hospital bedside all those months ago. The letter she credited, wrongly she knew, with waking him up. It was worn soft with unfolding and smoothing.

 

She had to be careful what she said, or rather, how she said things. It was becoming second nature to think in a certain way when talking to Arthur, but sometimes she would still forget and would make some comment that would agitate or confuse him. He took everything very literally, and it could be mentally tiring trying to sustain a normal conversation. It was like talking to a two year old with the vocabulary of a teenager.

 

But she was so lucky, she thought, glancing sideways at him again. There he was, alive and fit, taller than he had been last year, and just a little clumsier. He could have died, he could have been left unable to walk or talk, and instead he had made a complete recovery.

 

“Airport!” Arthur cried suddenly, making her jump. “Look, Mum! Airport!”

 

There was indeed a sign ahead indicating the turning towards the airport, and after a few more streets and roundabouts Carolyn was driving through open fields towards the unmistakeable landmarks of a moderately large airfield; the modest tower, the humps of hangers in the distance, the clusters of parked Cessnas and Pipers.

 

“Wow,” said Arthur, as they passed the light aircraft. “Brilliant.”

 

He was silent, though, as she pulled up in front of a shiny glass building on the edge of the airfield, the headquarters of the Oxford Aviation Academy.

 

“Well,” said Carolyn, “here we are, and in plenty time. Do you want me to come in with you?”

 

“No, course not.” But he made no move to unbuckle his seat belt.

 

A large car pulled to the kerb in front of them, and an older woman and man got out with a boy who could easily have been one of Arthur’s classmates from last year. He was fresh-faced and bright eyed, and held himself with confidence as his mother kissed him and his father clapped him on the shoulder. Then, as his parents drove off, he gave an self-conscious wave and walked into the building alone.

 

Carolyn was overwhelmed by a huge qualm, a regret that she loathed to acknowledge, and which she felt was monstrous. It was a triumph for them both that Arthur was here today at all. It had only been a week before the accident that she had submitted the application to the Oxford Aviation Academy on his behalf, after he had confessed his ambition to be a pilot on the day of the school prizegiving; knowing that Gordon would try to put a stop to it, either directly or by bullying and emotional blackmail, she had done it all on the quiet, intending to present it as a fait accompli. At the time she had filled in the application forms, he had been in perfect health with an impressive school record. She had used her contacts in the aviation industry to secure him an interview, but he had been a good candidate on paper anyway.

 

Now, he was still technically in rehabilitation after a severe head injury, and he had not gone back to school. Although the headmaster had said that he was welcome to start in the sixth form as soon as he was well enough, she knew in her heart that all that was over. It had been enough of an achievement for him, and a relief for her, when he managed to stumble through a short passage of simple prose three months after the accident. He was never going to sit A Levels, he was never going to university.

 

She should not have brought him here.

 

“Right then,” Arthur said suddenly, surprising her. “I’ll just – “ He released his seatbelt and opened the car door.

 

“Arthur, you don’t have to do this.”

 

“Why, Mum? What’s the matter?”

 

“Nothing. On you go. I’ll go and find a cup of coffee and pick you up at eleven.”

 

“Right-o!”

 

She watched him until he disappeared behind the sliding doors of the building, and she couldn’t help seeing that he moved awkwardly. It wasn’t normal teenage gangliness, it was poor co-ordination and heedlessness.

 

The relentlessly positive culture of the rehabilitation process, and her own fierce belief that he could still be her own Arthur again given a little more time and healing, had fooled her into seeing a normal boy with a few, hopefully temporary problems. But fundamentally, she was a bitter realist. She should not have brought him here, to expose him to an interview he would have no way of coping with. Even seeing him next to undamaged teenagers of his own age was enough to remind her that miraculous as his physical recovery had been, he was not going to be able to navigate the world on equal terms.

 

In the airfield canteen, she sipped a cup of atrocious coffee and took the two letters that had arrived that morning out of her handbag. One document she had no intention of showing to Arthur, nor mentioning in the near future. It was the decree absolute that finally dissolved nearly two decades of marriage. The other was a letter from her lawyer, outlining in detail exactly how rich she was. A combination of guilt, fear and infatuation had made Gordon an uncharacteristic pushover, and he had agreed to an immediate divorce on the grounds of adultery and given her pretty much everything she had demanded so that he could marry Miss Top-Grossing Entrepreneur of the Year in peace.

 

She looked down the list of her new assets. The properties in Scotland, Switzerland and London she would simply sell, and buy a comparatively modest house for her and Arthur to live in. Gordon had kept the Hall but really, she had no need for the hassle and expense of living in a stately home. She had, as she had said to Gordon, other plans.

 

 

 

When, after the allotted hour had passed, she returned to the Aviation Academy, she found Arthur sitting on the kerb in an attitude that suggested he had been waiting some time. She drove right next to him before he noticed her, and when he looked up his expression was anxious.

 

“How did it go, then?” she asked with trepidation, as he climbed into the car.

 

“Oh… sort of didn’t, really.”

 

“Didn’t what?”

 

“Didn’t go. I didn’t go in.”

 

“What do you mean, you didn’t go in?” she said, far more sharply, in her anxiety, than she had intended.

 

“I’m sorry, Mum!” he cried. “I couldn’t. All the others looked like they could – and I couldn’t.”

 

And to her horror, he burst into tears.

 

Carolyn stopped the car by the side of the road, a quiet one leading out of the airfield, and awkwardly put her arms around him. She was not particularly prone to displays of physical comfort and she had barely hugged him since infancy, but it was borne on her again that he had become as helpless as a toddler. She didn’t think she had seen him cry since he had been quite a young child, either, and now he sobbed in her arms uninhibited. She felt tears prickle in her own eyes, which she would not let him see. It was grief for everything he had lost, the life he should have had, the future that Gordon had shattered.

 

For a little while, she held him and let him cry. Then she said, “Now then Arthur, there’s no need for this.”

 

He pulled away immediately, wiping at his face with the back of his hand. “Yeah, Mum. I know. Sorry.”

 

“There’s no need for this, because you do not need to be a pilot to have a dazzling future in the aviation industry.”

 

“How – how do you mean?”

 

“I mean, there are many other ways to make a career with aeroplanes, beyond driving them. How would you like to run an airline?”

 

He took his hands away from his face and looked at her in confusion. “Well, I would, but how does that work?”

 

“Well, you start with a plane.”

 

“Oh right. I haven’t got one.”

 

“No, not as yet – but I do.”

 

“You do?”

 

“Guess who owns GERTI?”

 

“Dad…?”

 

“Wrong! As of today, I do.”

 

“What? Dad gave her to you?”

 

“Indeed he did. And we are going to operate her as a private charter plane, for now. We’ll hire a pilot, or probably two pilots, and fly anyone who can pay us anywhere they want to go in the world. And we’ll put the profits back into the business and when we can afford it, buy another plane, and then another, and grow into a private airline.”

 

“Wow! Mum, that’s brilliant! You’re like Stelios!”

 

“I sincerely hope not.”

 

“But I don’t know anything about running an airline. I don’t know if I’d be any good at it.”

 

“Of course not, child. You’re only seventeen. You will be starting at the bottom, making the coffee and hoovering the seats.”

 

“Brilliant!”

 

“But one day, you’ll be the one on the cover of Aviation Business magazine.”

 

“Dad would like that, wouldn’t he?”

 

Carolyn said nothing, because there was nothing she could trust herself to say.

 

Fortunately, Arthur didn’t register her lack of response. “When can we start, Mum? Can we go now?”

 

“Go, Arthur? Where?”

 

“To get GERTI, and start the airline.”

 

“Arthur, we haven’t got a pilot, we haven’t got an office, we haven’t even got an airfield to use as a base. As far as I know, GERTI is still in her hanger in Surrey.”

 

“Yeah, but can we go and see her? Can we, Mum?”

 

His face was shining with enthusiasm through the tear stains, and the sight was too much for her to bear. As long a day as this was turning out to be, she started the engine and turned the car around in the road. “Oh, very well. Why not.”

 

“And GERTI’s really your jet now? Cos I can hardly believe Dad let you have her.”

 

“Ohhh, he took some persuading, but yes. GERTI is absolutely my jet now. Come to think of it, that’s not a bad name for the airline. My Jet Now. It has a ring to it.”

 

They passed the Aviation Academy again on their way out of the airport, but Arthur didn’t even glance back.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 


End file.
